Free Sappho by Nancy Freedman

When she heard how the god had honored her, a virgin, she was content.
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    The third day of Dionysos there were games of chance, trials of strength, more feasting and drinking contests. Naked boys hopped about, running races with one leg in a wineskin. Revelers costumed as nymphs and satyrs held hands, winding through the crowd, a confetti of petals sprinkled on them from horse-whipped chariots.
    Sappho watched her brothers at dice. Khar’s throw; it came up Kios. She clapped her hands and laughed. It was the worst throw in the game. Eurygyos did better. But it was young Larichos, calling on Zeus, father of gods and men, who won when the knuckle bones came up Aphrodite. Her brothers invited her to join in the play, but she shook her head. She liked to gamble, but not with money.
    That night, initiate youths danced to tunes in a trance. Suddenly snakes turned on their arms, flowed upon their necks and shoulders. A boy was bitten. Convulsing in every limb, he writhed on the ground before Dionysos, who smiled his serene smile as he looked upon mortal perishing. When the youth was dead, everyone dropped a flower upon his body until he was covered by a hill of multifarious colors.
    The feasting went into the fourth day. Prisoners were released with a great clash of cymbals, bedecked animals were constantly slaughtered to the gods, and libations were made. That day, too, continued into night, and for the fourth time torches were thrust into the arms of statues and slaves.
    With the final dawn, which was the fifth day, a subtle shift in the atmosphere hinted at heightened tension. Everyone was drinking satyrion, an aphrodisiac saved until this last day to madden the women. Sappho drank with care. She was not thinking of the performance still to give, when neither her feet nor her tongue must falter. No, she was thinking past it to the digging up of the body of Melanchros.
    She leaned back upon cushions, surrounded by her brothers and several youths of noble family. Serving men poured water over their hands, and from mixing bowls of wine and water their cups were filled. Sappho’s goblet was of rare craftsmanship, with a dove perched upon it for a handle. Each in turn cast wine upon the mighty blaze that roared before them, roasting the flesh of boars on a five-pronged spit, bellies slit and stuffed with young kid and capon, garnished with savories of wild onion and spices. Polished tables were brought, and a carver placed platters of flesh on gold-worked plates, while slaves passed among them pouring Kios from leather bottles. Female slaves serenaded them as they dressed their hair with fresh flowers. At a signal everyone had to show how far they had emptied their cups.
    A shadow fell across Sappho. She glanced up. It was Pittakos. A flower had dropped from her hair. He stooped to pick it up and, smiling, held it out to her. A flush spread beneath her tinted face.
    â€œSappho,” he said, “of ravishing words.” This overture from Pittakos caused a stir in the great hall.
    She reached for the flower but knocked it from his hand. Could it have been an accident? But Sappho was never clumsy.
    Pittakos bowed stiffly and moved on; the laughter at her table resumed, only now there was a caustic edge in it. She sipped again at the satyrion. She no longer cared; somehow she would get through the Arkadian dances and accomplish what the gods willed. The men were singing skolia, waving their cups. To each table was brought a woman, naked from the waist up, whose breasts had been dipped in wine. The guests took turns suckling her, and between times the paps were redipped. Sappho climbed into the lap of the woman and suckled as her brothers and the young men had. The breasts were deep and soft; she nuzzled and bit gently.
    The group at her table left together for the sacred grove, arriving in time to hear the Overcoming by Dionysos of the Minos of Crete recited. No sooner had they seated themselves